Retribution (Secrets & Lies #3)(61)
“She made her mistakes,” I admit, trying to not let him get to me. For too many years the memories of what my mother did have haunted me, and I will not let them anymore. “She loved you, for one.”
“Like I said, she was one dumb bitch. Coming to me, rubbing her belly and acting like I suddenly had this obligation to take care of her. I was like, 'you've got a husband, let him take care of you. You're just my side piece.' She didn't like that, but she still couldn't say no to me.”
“You mentally screwed her up for the rest of her life,” I shoot back, still trying to control my temper. “Your evil screwed me up for a long time, too.”
“Who the f*ck cares? I heard about that, back when I sent Vadim after you all. The social issues, the hermit-like behavior, the anxiety attacks. Actually, I found reading your shrink's files quite interesting. He was hesitant to give them up, but after three broken fingers, he remembered where he had them. Too bad you stopped seeing him five years ago, I think you two were making good progress,” Peter taunts, still grinning.
I make an image of Nathan in my mind. It helps me, I can find strength in it, and I don't feel the urge to scream or lose it like I did last night. “You know, I understand now what Jackson said about you.”
“What?” Peter asks, his smile changing, like he's slightly surprised I'm not shaken up by his taunting. “That he realizes he f*cked up?”
“No, actually Jackson's happier than ever with his beautiful wife and daughter,” I answer, chuckling. “No... but one time, right around Halloween when everyone got together and we got dressed up and had a little party at the farm, I asked him about you. After all, I've never really gotten a chance to know you. And you know what he said? He told me, and I quote, 'Melissa, Peter DeLaCoeur is a spoiled brat of a child in a middle-aged man's body. If it wasn't for his ability to make business deals, he'd be nothing more than a pathetic loser who sits around watching women's wrestling and jacking off, or watching UFC fights and talking about how much of a badass he was back in high school.' Honestly, I think Jackson was being nice, or maybe you've regressed since then.”
Peter's face goes that same angry brick color it did last night, and he steps forward, his hand cocked. I have an instant to brace myself before his slap catches me hard on the cheek, just under the left eye and my head is slammed to the side. He may be jowly, overweight, and out of shape, but he’s still got two hundred and ten pounds of weight that he can put into a swing, and he knows how to slap. I can taste blood on my tongue, and I grin, spitting onto the wood floor. “I thought slapping was the way girls fight.”
“You wanna see me fight?” Peter yowls, cocking his arm back for a punch, but before he can, Isis grabs his wrist, pushing him away.
“What are you doing?” she asks. I see she's dressed for action again, and this time the gun in her hands isn't a pistol, but some sort of assault rifle. I don't know much about them though. “I told you to leave her alone.”
“You told me not to f*ck her,” Peter counters, his eyes flickering to Isis' rifle. “Not to leave her alone. I was doing a father's duty.”
“You've never been her father, and you never will be,” Isis says, a hint of anger in her voice. “Back off. It’s time to get her ready to move anyway to the staging area. But if you touch her again, you will find that my FAMAS can put a hole in you just as easily as your offspring.”
Peter huffs, his fists clenching at his side, then nods. “Fine. I'll go get my f*cking gun.”
He storms out of the room, and Isis rolls her eyes, shaking her head and muttering in French, something about killing an arrogant bastard. She kneels and takes out a knife and handcuffs, laying the knife to the side. “At least with me, your death will be... clean.”
“Why do you care how I die?” I ask, not angry but fascinated. I don't remember a lot of the French I studied years ago in my art studies, but I know that if Isis means what she just said, Peter's not going to survive this either.
“Perhaps you’re not the only woman in the room who was mistreated by the man who was supposed to be her father,” Isis says softly before her voice hardens. “Either way, it will not change your fate. Now, right hand first, time for the handcuffs again.”
She puts the cuff around my right wrist before undoing the strap, then with a solid but not painful joint lock brings it over to the other side, where she repeats the process before picking up the knife and going around to the back of my chair. She cuts the rope with a snapping sound, and suddenly my waist and legs are both free. “Stand up, it’s time.”
“Where are you taking me?” I ask, and Isis takes my right arm just above the elbow, pushing me along. I start to push back, but her index finger presses in, and my arm turns into a wave of fiery pain, and I whimper, my knees going weak.
“Don’t mistake my respect of your body and mind for weakness, Melissa,” Isis growls. “Now walk. We’re taking you closer to the Lafayette Cemetery, where the meeting is set for.”
I walk, and Isis lets off on the pressure, my arm still aching but at least the fire is gone. She steers me toward the kitchen. “Now come.”
Peter's in the kitchen, an M-16 I think in his hands, glowering when Isis brings me in. “You two cunts done having your Lifetime channel moment?”